


Snowflake Kisses

by jugglingeese



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Cuties, M/M, Sleepy Boys, Snow Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 17:02:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1436050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jugglingeese/pseuds/jugglingeese
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos wakes up to find Aramis distracted, but it's worth it when he sees what's out of the window. Short fluffy fic, very brief d'Artagnan/Athos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snowflake Kisses

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers:  
> I don't own these characters.  
> I haven't read the book, only seen the BBC TV series.   
> Canon? What is canon?
> 
> Kudos and comments much appreciated. If you spot any mistakes, please feel free to let me know. :)

Porthos drifts into consciousness reluctantly, curling in on himself in reaction to the bite of winter cold on his shoulders and pulling the sheets more tightly round his neck. But something is still missing. He cracks open his eyes, and sees empty white space where there should be long dark hair against the pillow, creases in the sheets where there should be strong scarred limbs. He mumbles something that isn’t even words and flings his arm across the empty expanse to fill it as best he can on his own, uncomfortable in so much space alone but too sleepy still to muster a greater complaint. 

“Good morning, my darling,” comes a soft, amused voice. Porthos opens his eyes properly and lifts his head to see Aramis in just his breeches by the window, curtain drawn back, a cup of something steaming in his hand. He sits up, and Aramis spares him a fond glance before returning his gaze outside. 

“What time is it?” Porthos asks, dragging one hand down his face in an effort to wake up and pulling the sheets up to his chest. Not out of any sense of modesty; God knows and probably disapproves of how far they are from protecting their modesty when it’s just them in a room. But the room is freezing, so cold that Porthos can see his breath in front of his face, and he’ll be damned if he gets frostbite in his own bed. Or Aramis’ bed, technically. 

“Still early,” Aramis replies, voice still soft, still distracted. Still staring out of the window instead of at Porthos and Porthos can’t help but feel a little jealous at whatever’s caught Aramis’ eye, because he knows that he looks particularly handsome when he’s just woken up. At least, Aramis has told him often enough that he does. 

“What’re you looking at?” he asks. 

“Come and see,” Aramis says, not even looking at him this time. Porthos huffs a breath and stares at his lover, his comrade in arms, his one and only love beside soldiering. 

“It’s freezing,” he says in lieu of a refusal. Aramis just chuckles and hooks a shirt from the floor, flicking it across the room so that it lands in Porthos’ lap. Porthos glares at him but since Aramis still isn’t looking in his direction, the effect isn’t the desired one. Porthos relents and pulls the shirt - which could belong to either of them at this point, they’ve given up keeping track - over his head and drags himself from under the covers, grunting as stiff muscles report their morning complaints and hissing as his bare feet touch the icy floor. 

“Stop whimpering and get over here,” Aramis says impatiently, and Porthos is torn between denying ever uttering a whimper in his life and grinning because that’s more like the Aramis he knows, so he keeps his mouth shut and goes to the window, wrapping his arms around Aramis’ waist in a futile attempt to keep the both of them warm. Aramis leans back into his hold just as Porthos realises what has kept Aramis enthralled for long enough to turn into a human icicle. 

“It snowed,” he says, ducking his head to kiss Aramis’ neck before resting his chin on his shoulder. It was past dawn, so most of the snow had turned to brown slush as carts muddied it on their way to market. But here and there were islands of white, irregular triangles cut out of the road. 

“First snow of the winter,” Aramis murmurs, setting down his cup so that he can more easily cradle Porthos’ arms in his own.   
“Is this one of those times when we’re supposed to make a wish or something?” Porthos asks. He’d had his superstitions before he joined the Musketeers, of course, but Aramis was at a whole different level. Porthos had given up trying to keep track.

Then Aramis leans forward against his arms and chuckles. “I think all of my dreams just came true,” he says.  
Porthos leans forward too and snorts as Athos and d’Artagnan come into view. Athos’ arm is over their newest friend’s shoulders, and both of them look far too comfortable for this to be the first time they’ve found themselves in that position. 

“Finally,” Porthos grunts. “Now maybe we’ll get a break from all this ridiculous sexual tension they’ve been floating around on since d’Artagnan got here.”

“I wouldn’t blame them for all of that tension,” Aramis says, something sly in his voice all of a sudden. Porthos grins. Aramis is the opposite of subtle. 

“Oh really?” he says, feigning disinterest. Aramis twists in his arms and kisses him gently. 

“It’s still early,” Aramis points out, watching Porthos’ eyes carefully. “Why don’t we go back to bed. I’m sure we can think of something to do to … warm up before we have to go.”

Porthos grins and kisses Aramis, his hand firm on the back of his neck, just as Aramis likes it. “I like the sound of that,” he says.


End file.
